Jon sat against the cold stone wall of the camp; his breath steady despite the chaos around him. The battle was over for the moment, but the aftermath was a different story. The wounded had been brought in, and the cries of the injured echoed across the camp. He had seen death more times than he could count, but the reality of it never quite lost its edge. Even as the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, he wasn’t immune.

His arm ached where the sword had grazed it earlier. But it wasn’t the physical pain that gnawed at him. It was the thought of those still out there, those who hadn’t made it back. How many had died because of his decisions? How many more would before the night was over?

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft voice. He turned his head, expecting to see a familiar face from the Watch, but instead, it was her.

{{user}}, the healer who had been traveling with them for weeks now. She had become a quiet presence in his life, always there when needed, tending to the wounded without hesitation. She moved with a calm efficiency, always the professional. But Jon couldn't ignore the way she looked at him. It was subtle, fleeting, but he caught it each time. Her gaze lingered just a moment longer than necessary, and he found himself wondering if it was pity, concern, or something else entirely.

"Lord Snow," she said, kneeling beside him, her hands already reaching for the wound on his arm. "You’ve taken a hit."

Jon didn’t move, allowing her to work without protest. His gaze met hers as she cleaned the wound, her eyes focused on her task but softening whenever their eyes met.

“I’m fine,” Jon muttered, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. He had taken worse in battle, but something about the way she was looking at him made him feel vulnerable, more so than he’d ever been in the midst of a fight.